


Outrunning Karma

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: This Isn't Child's Play Anymore [4]
Category: Child's Play/Chucky (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andy Barclay is #scary, Andy Barclay..., Andy is a Chaotic Neutral, Beer, Chucky is Bad At Feelings, Chucky is hemophobic, Cutting, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Frenemies, Gen, Graphic Self-Harm, Hemophobia, Hemophobic, I decided to stick to past tense, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Marijuana, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Relationships, Scary Andy Barclay, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Andy Barclay, Slow Burn, Smoking, Sorry Not Sorry, There will be suicide/self harm themes so, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Tension, Vomiting, also, also yeah, blood mention, fear of blood, honestly, is a chaotic little shit, puking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: Chucky leaned his head against the edge of the desk and breathed, swallowing thickly. The lump in his throat gave a little, enough for him to speak. "Hey, Tiff."
Relationships: Andy Barclay & Chucky | Charles Lee Ray, Andy Barclay & Kyle, Chucky | Charles Lee Ray/Tiffany Valentine-Ray
Series: This Isn't Child's Play Anymore [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193075
Comments: 13
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kind-of sequel to my other works ("Friends To The End, Motherfucker" "Don't Talk About It" "This Is New").

Chucky was a bit of a wanderer.

There wasn't much to do, after all; Andy had let him have free reign of the cabin, and Chucky enjoyed the freedom - but to say he was confused would have been an understatement. The level of trust Andy seemed to be putting in him scared him more than anything else could have. Not that he'd say that to his face - not that he really needed to. No, for the most part, Andy seemed to know what he was thinking. He seemed to know how to get under his skin. He seemed to know what really, truly bothered him - and he seemed to know that not knowing Andy's motives was one of the things that really got to him. Lately, he seemed to be able to read Chucky like a fucking book, and Chucky wasn't sure he was helping things, either. It was getting harder and harder to act around the man, because he didn't know _how_ to act toward him now. He was almost scared just to insult him; he didn't want to end up with his head on a board. And he also didn't want to do anything else that would trigger Andy's new, ah - _habits_. It was basically a rock and a hard place. They were at a wall, and Chucky wasn't going an inch further.

So, yes, he wandered. Right then, more than ever; stumbling through the cabin absently while Andy cooked dinner. He always ended up back to the living room, mostly because the volume was practically blaring on the TV. The kid had the Shining playing - a classic among horror movies, but not one Chucky could stomach. He found himself turning the volume down a little - unfortunately, during one particular scene he wished he hadn't been around to see. Watching the blood pour out of the elevator was enough to make his stomach roll; he managed to turn away to leave, but it was too late. Clasping his hands over his ears to muffle the frantic screams coming from the television, he stumbled out of the room and down the hall, to the bathroom.

Thankfully, he managed to hold it until he reached the toilet, but then it was over. He threw up, retching into the bowl and slumping over it for a good few seconds. He cursed under his breath - cursing Damballa, and Ayida, and the Loa and everything, everyone he could think of. He would apologize for it later, once he was in a clearer state of mind, but right then he was gonna curse.

He was throwing up, again, when he heard the volume suddenly turn down further, and then the screams abruptly stopped altogether. Then there was a more… upbeat tune coming from the living room, creepy classic horror movie music replaced by something a little more jaunty, and light. Despite himself, he lifted his head a little to turn his gaze toward the doorway, somewhat surprised - and even more so when he heard Andy. "Sorry," the man called - and Chucky noted numbly that he didn't quite sound sorry - before his footsteps retreated back to the kitchen.

But he didn't reply. He toyed with the straps of his overalls and let himself sink away from the toilet, managing to lift his fingers to the handle to flush it. It took him a moment to compose himself enough to heave himself back to his feet, and he did so with shaking legs that felt like jelly, about to collapse underneath him at any given second, at the first wrong step. And so, he walked carefully out of the bathroom, one foot in front of the other, and ended up making his way to the kitchen instead. He'd been avoiding that particular room, but there was nowhere else to go now. Besides, he needed something to drink now more than he ever had.

Entering the kitchen, he made a direct beeline for the fridge. He was certain Andy noticed his presence; the doll wasn't exactly making an effort to sneak around, and the kid was much more observant than he used to be. But he was offered no reaction, or a greeting; Andy simply remained standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot while Chucky made his way to the fridge and pulled it open with a grunt. After surveying each of the shelves carefully, he selected a bottle from where it was wedged into the inside of the door, and carefully pressed it shut.

Turning away, he caught Andy's gaze; the man had the nerve to look almost amused, tugging his lips up into a tiny half-smile as he jerked his chin toward the bottle Chucky was holding. "That's not gonna help you get the taste of puke out of your mouth," he warned.

Well, Chucky knew that. But it wasn't about getting the taste of puke out of his mouth; it was about getting the nausea out of his stomach. So he sneered back at the man in response, mustering up the courage to flip him off before he returned both hands to the bottle. It was slippery, and since it had only been a few days since Chucky had been in the new doll, his plastic hands still couldn't quite grip the bottle just right. But he was still able to twist the cap off, half-heartedly tossing it toward the trash can and not bothering to pick it back up when he missed. Andy sighed at him, but he turned back to whatever he was cooking; Chucky thought he caught the smell of chicken, maybe rice, but he wasn't about to speak up and ask the man. He'd come to realize there were certain things they did together now. For instance, they shared a joint every now and again in front of the TV, watching Family Guy and South Park and the Simpsons. They snacked together when they got hungry enough. They shared a beer sometimes. But they didn't have meals together. They didn't exchange 'goodnights'. They didn't _talk_ like they did when Chucky's head was on a platter. It was their new arrangement.

Was it awkward? Sure, sometimes. But Andy seemed comfortable with it, and Chucky was trying his damndest to adjust, so there wasn't much of a problem with it otherwise.

Even so, he had to hide a frown by sipping from the bottle. And Andy was right, of course; the taste of the beer made the lingering taste of puke a little stronger, and a little worse. And he almost felt like he might just throw up again. But he took another sip anyway; he knew if he stopped drinking, he was going to receive an 'I toldja so' or something of the sort from Andy, and he wasn't going to let the damn kid win at something else, too. That, and it was the only kind of beer Andy had at the ready - he had a horrible taste in alcohol, if Chucky was honest.

But Andy didn't turn back, and Chucky was about to resign himself to retreating back to the living room - but he did pause to watch Andy for a moment longer. He wasn't sure why - but he'd never seen the man so intent and focused on something. Even when he was hunched over his laptop or busying himself with paperwork. Even when he was cutting. Or when he was torturing him. He never looked this relaxed and content and concentrated, and he'd never seemed this happy to be doing anything. Well - happy was a strong word. His eyes were still blank and dull, and lifeless like a dead man's. But the smile on his face was a little softer, a little more real.

He took another sip, no longer frowning. He was… curious. He was intrigued.

Chucky hated himself, with every fiber of his being - but he hated Andy Barclay even more. He was furious, he was appalled, at how this man managed to keep him here where he wanted him. How Andy managed, single handedly, to almost tame the beast inside of him. Chucky still didn't know if he'd be able to kill Andy even if he could handle the sight of blood - and it pissed him off, to realize that time and time again. The revelation managed to shock him every time.

He could leave, and the doll knew this. Andy retreated to his room at night, and Chucky was often left to his restless wandering until he managed to pass out on the couch. But he didn't have to stay; whenever he wanted, he could run when Andy's sleeping, and he doesn't ever have to come back. Sometimes he wondered, if he did escape, whether Andy would chase him down. He wondered if it was worth it. He wondered if he was the only thing keeping the kid alive at this point. As long as Andy had to watch over him and keep him in line, he had less of a reason to do something else with his knives. Something worse than just carving into either of them. Once upon a time, Chucky would have given anything to be able to kill Andy Barclay, in any way he possibly could. But now, for some reason, he found himself balking at the thought.

In some twisted way, he realized he'd grown to almost see the man as a friend. There were times, every so often, it felt like he might not hate Andy as much as he used to - and vice versa.

He admonished himself with a quiet sigh as he left the room, deciding to leave Andy to his own devices for the time being. Maybe he'd join him in the living room to watch television later; sometimes Andy would come and eat on the couch and Chucky would relax in the chair while the TV blared one of the few shows they shared an interest in. Sometimes they laughed over the same jokes; sometimes they joked around a little themselves. It was almost nice. But, other times, Andy would eat in the dining room, and Chucky would get the TV all to himself. Like now; so he climbed up onto the couch and grabbed the remote to start flipping through the channels, lifting the beer to his lips for another sip and fixing his eyes on the screen. He ended up going to their pre-recorded shows - nothing good tended to be on during that time of the night, anyway.

The doll set it to an episode of Family Guy and sat back to watch, sighing.

About halfway into the episode, Andy finally entered the room. He was carrying two plates, but Chucky didn't focus on him long enough to see why - so what if the guy was hungrier than usual tonight? He probably smoked a little too much earlier, it wasn't exactly a big deal, and it shouldn't have been any of Chucky's concern. But, Andy ended up surprising him (and at this point, the only thing the doll was really surprised about was the fact that he was surprised at all) by setting the plate down in front of him before sitting down on the couch, on the other side, far enough away from Chucky so that there was an entire cushion between them. For a moment, Chucky could only stare down at the food. Chicken and rice, as he had suspected, with a biscuit and gravy on the side. He managed to flick his gaze toward Andy, then back down. "The fuck?"

Andy snorted. "You're welcome." He took a bite of his chicken, washing it down with a few swallows of beer himself, and Chucky spared him a dubious look. But still, Andy didn't say anything, taking another bite and swallowing it down with another mouthful of beer before he finally opened his mouth again, seeming to sense Chucky's lingering gaze on the side of his head. "I just realized, you don't eat dinner. Or really at all," he commented. "So, there. Enjoy."

"The _fuck_?" Chucky asked again, with a little more feeling behind the words now. He was more than just dubious; he was pissed, and he couldn't really understand why. Hell, this was a pretty nice gesture coming from the guy who had tortured him for four fucking years, but he was still getting angry. Maybe because he was getting sick of dancing around the subject of whatever sick game Andy might have been playing here. Was it some kind of psychological torture? Mental? Emotional? Was he just fucking playing games with him now? He didn't _understand_. "Seriously, Barclay? You're cooking me dinner now? What's next, you gonna propose?"

"Just eat it," Andy groaned. "I had enough to share and I figured I might as well. It's been long enough, you should be almost completely human by now. If you don't eat, you'll die."

"The hell is that such a bad thing?" Chucky retorted, seething now. "I don't want your fucking-"

"Your existence confuses me," Andy interrupted. Chucky snarled, about ready to snap at him just for that, but he couldn't even get his mouth open to say anything before Andy was continuing, just as casually as if they were discussing the weather, or something of the sort. "Your presence is annoying, and I hate your guts, but the thought of something bad happening to you upsets me. At least, something bad happening to you that isn't my own doing," he added, and the grin that he shot in Chucky's direction then was as sharp and dangerous as a shark's. "Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"

Chucky bit out a laugh, sharp despite the odd twisting in his gut he couldn't explain. Andy's words pissed him off even further, but on some level, he almost felt kind of warmed by them. But that only served to make him even more angry in the long run. "Is this really a gift?" He argued. "You're just doing this shit out of the kindness of your heart, huh? We're pals now, is that it?"

"Haven't we always been?" Andy crooned. "Friends to the end, eh, Chuckles?"

"Go to Hell!"

"I'll meet you there."

Chucky curled his lips back, opening his mouth to retort, but he couldn't think of a response. Andy only chuckled at him before he turned away again, and the only thing Chucky managed to spit out after a moment - which only earned him another quiet huff of a laugh - was "and don't fucking call me Chuckles, you piece of shit," before he turned back to the plate in front of him.

Briefly, he considered the idea that it might be poisoned. But he didn't think Andy would do that; they both knew it would take a little more than poison to keep the doll down, right? And he'd died more times than he could count, anyway. He always came back. Andy wouldn't take that risk - but even though he knew this logically, he still couldn't help but ponder. As dumb as it was, the idea of Andy trying to poison him was a lot more plausible than him giving him food out of sheer kindness for whatever fucking reason his idiot brain had conjured. Picking the plate up, Chucky narrowed his eyes, curling his fingers around the fork carefully and scooping up some of the chicken and rice. It smelled good, for sure; he took a bite before his mouth had time to properly start watering, frowning as he chewed. It wasn't Swedish meatballs, but, shit, it was pretty good. He wasn't gonna say it to Andy's face, but the kid could actually fucking cook.

He half-expected a snarky remark from the man, but he was silent now, fork clattering against his plate as he ate and watched TV in content silence. The episode changed. Andy snickered at the beginning, and Chucky allowed himself to crack a grin despite himself, but it faded quickly as he took another bite. He might be enjoying himself, but he didn't want the kid to know that. And he definitely didn't want him to get the impression that Chucky was enjoying his company.

He took another bite, and tried to think of the last time someone had cooked for him. The only thing he could come up with was… Tiffany. And, honestly, it was enough to make him go rigid. Every muscle in his still somewhat half-plastic body pulled taut, grip on the fork tightening a little bit as he stared at the TV, before steadily dropping his gaze to the plate in his lap. Tiffany. Truthfully, he hadn't really thought of the woman up until… well, up until now. Sure, on occasion, Andy would try to urge their conversations in that direction, attempting to make Chucky talk about his (ex?) wife, but Chucky didn't entertain that too much. For the most part, he would rather have Andy's focus on him instead of his wife and kid… kids? Whatever. As much trouble as he had showing it, he really did love Tiffany. And he really did care about Glen _and_ Glenda. He'd always wanted a daughter (god damn _Barbara_ had been proof of that, but that hadn't exactly ended favorably), and his father always insisted that Chucky needed to have a son, so that he could carry on the tradition. He wasn't even angry with the little prick for killing him, either. That was what was supposed to happen. It was tradition, just like everything else was.

And Tiffany… god, how he loved her. She was the only woman he could say he did. And yeah, it was true, Chucky had had multiple 'partners' over the years. Especially when he'd been a teenager. He and Tiffany had grown up together, and even when they'd gotten together, neither of them saw anything wrong with Chucky seeing other people. It was just a way to keep himself entertained; none of them lasted. Fuck, he even killed some of them just for the hell of it. But he never got bored with Tiffany - she had been more to him than some fling, or a one-night stand, or some kind of 'trophy wife' kind of deal. She had been his best friend growing up, and the person he'd wanted by his side through thick and thin. No, he hadn't planned on marrying her, because as far as he was concerned, marriage was where the relationship went downhill.

And he hadn't been entirely wrong. She'd left him after that. Left him, just like everyone else.

And he'd never have fucking expected it, not from her. And, yeah! It had hurt like fucking _hell_. But he was over it. They were both over it. She'd helped him find the Pierce family, and even track down Andy. But they'd lost contact. Andy had taken him to an entirely different place, presumably because he _knew_ Chucky had someone else helping him out, and the doll wished he knew what Tiffany was up to these days, but he didn't have the slightest clue. It had been- what, four? Five? It had been years since they'd spoken. Chucky found himself wondering if she'd moved on; she had the kids to tend to now, more important things to worry about. Probably thought Chucky had gotten what he'd wanted and was out there having fun alone.

 _Tiffany Valentine,_ his mind whispered, and he shut his eyes for a moment. The mere thought of her, after so long apart, was as intoxicating as being in her presence had always been. Every part of him ached to be close to her again. He _loved_ her - he had trouble saying it and he had even more trouble expressing it, but he loved her. He had always loved her. _My amare._

"I'm going to bed." Chucky didn't offer anything more than a hum of acknowledgement, opening his eyes to focus on the screen again. "Turn the volume down," Andy added, leaving the room.

Chucky turned it up. Andy didn't say anything.

He put the plate down on the table, hearing Andy's door click shut, and resigned himself to another restless night on the couch. Anxiety buzzed through him, more intense than usual; he bit the inside of his cheek and leaned his head in his hand as he stared at the television, seeing nothing but a blur of colors. Even the noise was nothing more than static to him at that moment. The only thing he could hear was Tiffany's name whispered in his ears over and over again; he could hear her voice, he could feel her arms around him - he could almost smell her expensive perfume, the kind he always grouched and complained about, but he'd always secretly loved.

It took a while, just sitting there, completely enveloped by his memories of her, for him to decide that he just couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't take the tense, silent nights alone already, but the fact that Tiffany was on his mind now only made it worse. He looked out the window, briefly studying the star-covered sky, before turning away and sliding down off of the couch, frowning.

He made his way to the phone Andy had on his desk, heart stuttering slightly against his chest. It was a home phone, and he noticed it was still plugged in. Once again, he marveled at the amount of trust Andy held (or at least, the arrogance, in which he assumed Chucky wouldn't _dare_ attempt to double cross him?) as he picked it up, pulling it out of the receiver carefully and turning it around. The buttons beamed back up at him, numbers illuminated in the dimly-lit room. For a moment, his chest tightened, and his breath caught. He wondered why he hadn't thought of this before, and immediately scolded himself for not trying this sooner as he pressed one one of the buttons, letting his fingers drift over them. He hoped Tiffany hadn't changed her number.

The phone rang twice. He kept it pressed to his ear, gripping the desk with his free hand.

Why was he doing this?

"Hello?"

Oh.

That was why.

His heart fluttered, and he almost doubled over. It was a painful feeling, to him - and he almost laughed at the realization that Tiffany had always been able to torture him in ways Andy Barclay could never hope to, even with all the knives and blowtorches in the world. His throat closed up, though, and he tilted the phone away from his mouth as he swallowed and breathed in. It was a moment of truth, and Chucky wasn't good at those. Whatever he did, whatever he said, wherever this conversation led them - it was easily one of the most important things ever. Tiffany had to be pissed at him for just dropping off the face of the Earth. Maybe things hadn't been completely _okay_ with them, but he wasn't blind to the way she felt about him, either. She loved him as much as he loved her - she was just better at showing it. Maybe _too_ good at showing it.

He brought the phone back to his ear. In the background, he could hear children. Laughter, faint but still loud. Thumps and giggles and shouts every so often. It was almost as intoxicating as the sound of Tiffany's voice, and it choked him up nearly as much. Those were his children.

Chucky leaned his head against the edge of the desk and breathed, swallowing thickly. The lump in his throat gave a little, enough for him to speak. "Hey, Tiff."


	2. Chapter 2

Andy Barclay was a _simple man._

Was that a lie? Goddamn, yes, it was. He was far from simple, and he knew it better than anyone. Better than his mother, better than the several foster parents he'd had over the years, and much, _much_ better than the serial killer in the other room. He was pretty smart - he was a damn near genius, who was he trying to fool? At the age of six, even before Chucky had crashed into his life, he'd been smarter than most kids his age. The killer doll's appearance was just one of the factors that made Andy push a little bit harder at it as time went on. He was the reason Andy learned as much as he could, about all sorts of things. At least, at the beginning; admittedly, a lot of things were done for his own pleasure. Enrolling in Kents, for instance - he hadn't had to do that. Sure, it was a suggestion from Mike; he'd ended up staying with the detective for a while when the guy was finally allowed to contact him. And Andy had gone.

Things hadn't _worked out_ , but they typically never did. It was just another nail in the coffin of his childhood, Andy mused as he lit a cigarette and wandered over to his bed. Another chunk of dirt scooped up by the shovel. But seeing Chucky again had only led him to push even harder, taking control of his own life in ways he would've never imagined he could do. It was just a stark, grim reminder that the doll would always be out there no matter what he did - and that he wasn't just after Andy anymore, trying to transfer his soul into his body, but that he'd settle for any unlucky kid that managed to stumble across him. Andy was just going to make sure Chucky didn't pose as a danger to anyone else, and that nobody else's lives could be ruined by this fucking doll. And if he got a little revenge in the process? Hell fucking yeah! Sign him up!

He sighed, hearing the TV still blaring. He would've minded if they were back at his apartment, but here in his cabin, there was nobody else around to call the cops for 'disturbing the peace'. Andy knew how to deal with police officers by now, but it was still a pain in the ass anyway. He sank back onto his bed, flicking the ashes of his cigarette into the little metal bowl on his nightstand and pulling his phone out with a hum. The television was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the quiet footsteps from the living room. Andy was used to that sound, of course - he knew Chucky paced around the house at night, like a caged animal. He often found himself wondering if tonight was the night Chucky tried to leave, and gave him the chase he craved. But Chucky was always there in the morning, ever-compliant, frightened into obedience.

He wasn't stupid. He knew it was only a matter of time before something happened, before some reminder or realization struck the flames of defiance within the serial killer once again. But he was making it a point not to express these expectations; he loved seeing the confusion written across the doll's face, he loved the growls and the grunts when Andy refused to answer his questions. The truth was, though, he didn't really have an answer. He didn't know what to say when Chucky asked him what he was playing at. He didn't know what to say when Chucky asked why the fuck he was giving him food. Andy didn't know. He wasn't going to waste his time coming up with an answer - especially when it seemed like it was tearing Chucky apart, too.

He almost felt bad. But this wasn't the _worst_ thing he'd ever done to the guy.

Honestly, though? It really was somewhat amusing how Chucky seemed to think he had some big, drawn-out plan. How on guard he was. Sure, Andy did expect something to happen eventually, but he figured by then he'd actually have somewhat of a plan. For now, he just wanted to see what the doll would _do_. How he'd react. So far, it was almost funny, how he wasn't trying anything. The new routine they found themselves in was actually somewhat comfortable. But, he knew Chucky. He knew he wouldn't be able to sit still. He was as restless as ever the past few days, and Andy was waiting for him to snap. Then, maybe he could make something of a learning experience out of it for the doll. Chase him, hunt him down again. That was the little dance they did, the game of tag they were trapped in. The only difference was that now, Andy was _it_ , and Chucky was the one running away. It was exciting. It was _hilarious_.

He shut his phone off and leaned back, thinking back to what he'd said on the couch. He'd meant it, in a way; he had used to hate the little fucker with a passion, but now he found… well, he didn't loathe him the way he used to. Maybe he did expect Chucky to run, but he certainly didn't expect him to start killing again. No, Chucky's murderous side seemed to, more or less, have disappeared. It showed in the way he couldn't handle the sight of blood anymore, the way he hadn't slit Andy's throat the moment he had the chance to. He still irritated the fuck out of Andy, but now there was just something different, in place of the murderous intent he usually held. He enjoyed the suspicious looks, the snappy questions, the snarky remarks. And he enjoyed quipping back a few of his own every so often, and seeing mixtures of shock and pride in response, flickering back at him through the baby blue eyes that used to haunt his dreams.

He took a slow drag from the cigarette. Remembered the first time he'd tried one. It was funny, really - he never thought he'd grow up to be a smoker after that horrible experience. But he understood why Kyle had done it, to some extent. It was one of the few things that helped him relieve some of the stress constantly fizzling inside of him like a soda bottle with mentos inside. For the most part, he was eerily blank - but he liked to think the cigarettes kept him calm, too. At least in the beginning, he mused, as he blew the smoke out and flicked the ashes again, thinking. Now it was more or less because he wanted to do it. Because he needed to do it.

 _Like another habit worth mentioning…_ his gaze flicked toward the knife on his nightstand.

For a while, he just stared at it, thinking. The cigarette hung limply from his fingers, but he let it drop into the ashtray after a moment with a sigh. He sat up straighter, putting his phone aside, and rolled both of his sleeves up carefully. He might as well, before bed; he didn't do it much during the day anymore. Yes, he noticed how Chucky cringed and looked away when he brought the knife out before, and he noticed how the doll made it a point not to be around him when he did it now. The past few days, Chucky would hide until Andy went to find him again. Typically, he was in the kitchen, sitting at the table and playing with the buttons on his overalls. By that time, Andy would be finished, wrapped up, and ready to cook lunch. Now, that part of Chucky confused him to some extent - but it was only because he didn't understand why he seemed so averse to it. Was it because he was hemophobic, or was he hemophobic _because…_

He picked the knife up and steadied it in his hand, using it to slice through the bandages on his arm. A soft sigh escaped his lips as they loosened and fell, revealing the scars beneath. There were so many; too many to count. And he studied each of them, as he often did before he started. His expression softened, and if he cared to look in a mirror, he'd have seen nothing but a terrifyingly blank expression; one he saw in the mirror in the mornings, and one he tended to avoid to the best of his ability. But for now, he allowed it to consume him completely; he allowed every flicker of emotion, however small and brief, to fade away as he pressed the blade to his skin. It was cold, he noted - a nice change from the heat from the bandages - as he pressed the knife deeper, feeling the familiar sting as his skin ripped open. He breathed, sharp and steady.

Honestly? He didn't really _know_ why he did it.

The truth was, he didn't have just one particular reason. Several _little_ reasons, that would maybe form a bigger reason if he put them all together, but for now, they remained just that. One; he had to, he needed to. It was an addiction just like any drug, and Andy found that when he went too long without doing it, bad things happened. It was like a withdrawal - but some could argue that this one was worse. Because of number two; if he didn't fucking carve into himself, he was going to fucking carve into someone else. He'd learned this one early on. Thankfully, he'd never reached the point where he had hurt anybody else (Chucky excluded), but that didn't stop the thoughts. The thoughts, the thoughts, thoughts of torture, and murder, and pain, and blood. Making himself bleed made those thoughts a little more tolerable.

Number three? Fucking _hell_ , he deserved it! If he was gonna sit there and actually think about ripping someone else to pieces, then he deserved that goddamn knife in his _own_ skin. Andy liked to think… well, he knew he wasn't a good person now, but he liked to think that he had been. Could have been. _Would_ have been. And he liked to think that, every so often, he could _behave_ like a good person if he really, really wanted or needed to. But he knew the second he decided it wasn't worth it, and went after someone else… he knew it would be his breaking point. He could talk as much shit as he wanted. He could be all goddamn bark, all intimidating.

But, despite how many people were scared shitless of him, the truth was, he'd probably never really follow through. Other people didn't scare him anymore. It had been that way for a long time - the perks of having the shit scared out of him as a child. So it meant it was hard to scare the shit out of him _now_. And while it was true that Chucky didn't scare him _for_ shit anymore, there was still one thing that did - and that thing was himself. How fucked up was that, huh?

Number four- dear _god_ , feeling pain was better than feeling nothing. And he was slowly reaching that point. Slowly but surely. There was still anger and bitterness - but that was just another reason he picked up the knife, because he knew that if he ever let whatever darkness was inside of him take over, he wasn't going to be able to come back from it. You don't come back from that much rage. So he was careful, especially with himself. He was careful with what he did, and how he did it. He had to watch himself as intently as he watched Chucky.

He wondered which of them was worse, only for a second, as he carved another somewhat shaky line into his forearm. He hissed, holding his tongue between his front teeth, and sighed. Well, no, he knew the answer to that. Chucky was scared of him now. He was much worse.

The man smiled bitterly to himself, a low chuckle echoed by the sound of genuine laughter from the TV in the other room, as he sliced another cut and watched the blood drip. After a moment, he leaned over to grab the rag on his nightstand, carefully setting his knife down and pressing the cloth over the wound. He was careful, even during this. Especially during this. He sat there, leaning his head back against the headboard of the bed, and blew out a quiet sigh through his nose. He needed to go shopping tomorrow. Had to figure out how to do that. Chucky didn't try to leave when Andy was still somewhere in the house, but if Andy left for a little while? There was no telling what the little fucker would do. He dabbed at the blood some more, pulling the rag up to stare at the cuts. They still oozed, but not as badly; setting the rag down, he picked the knife up, ready to resume - only to pause, somewhat startled, when his phone buzzed beside him.

He blinked down at it as the screen lit up, the little text message icon popping up.

_Who the hell…?_

Texts at night were rare, and not many people had this number. He had only recently switched phones, and had only sent this one out to a few select people on his contacts list from the old one; draping the rag back over his arm and dropping the knife, he scooped his phone up and turned it on, arching an eyebrow as he opened the texting app. He scanned the spot at the top, where the name usually was, but there was only an unfamiliar number instead; he dropped his gaze to the text bubble, confused and a little agitated now, but he paused when he scanned the message. Once, then twice, and then a third time, to be sure he was reading it correctly. But his eyes couldn't be playing tricks on him, he decided, as he scanned it for the seventh time.

**Andy Barclay? This is Kyle.**

He arched an eyebrow and shut the phone off without responding, somewhat unsettled now. Kyle. Shit, he hadn't seen her since he was… what? Six? Seven? Yeah, he'd been about seven. Almost eight. They had kept in contact a little, as Andy was pushed around from foster home to foster home. But, ultimately, most of his caretakers decided he didn't need to be around Kyle anymore, so they… had kind of fallen apart. Of course, Andy knew he could've found her with ease, and she could do the same any day. But he wasn't going to bother with replying just yet. He didn't know what she wanted, but he didn't care enough to message her back just yet. She had been a good friend, of course - almost a sister to him. He had been so fond of the girl. But the problem was that he didn't feel that right then. He didn't feel much of anything right then. He had started, and he needed to finish before he interacted with anyone - and that was the rule.

Kyle would have to wait until he was done. Until _some_ emotion came back.

Not that much emotion needed to be put into a text message, but he still needed to be prepared. In case she wanted to call him or something like that. Kyle was a badass, she was tough and she believed him about Chucky and everything, and that was nice and all. But that was then. This was now. Now Andy had no idea what the girl was like - it had been long enough that both of them had definitely changed since the last time they'd spoken. Andy was fully prepared to be shocked by these changes. But he'd learned it was better to keep up an act for himself in the long run. That way, he could avoid the questions. He could avoid the concern. He already had most people looking at him like he was a crazy person; he didn't need that from Kyle, too.

 _I could have contacted her once I turned eighteen,_ he mused, picking the knife back up gingerly. He smiled at the blood-stained blade, gently rubbing it against the rag to clean some of the blood off before he pressed it back into his arm. _So why didn't I do that?_ He was one of the biggest puzzles in his own life. Trying to figure out his own actions and motivations was like staring at a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. He couldn't figure himself out any more than Chucky could. More than Karen could. More than Kyle would be able to. It wasn't an easy thing. He could drive himself crazy questioning it… but, in the end, he found it better to just let it go. The answer would come in time, the only thing he needed to do was wait for it. The man sighed, tilting his head downwards a little, and he watched the blade slide across his arm almost cautiously. Blood welled up around it, drizzling down his arm, feeling like a bug crawling on him.

It was… unpleasant. But that was the point, he supposed. The blood, the pain. It wasn't supposed to be pleasurable. It was just like smoking cigarettes, drinking beer. He needed it. Even if it seemed bad, felt bad, _was_ bad. It wasn't a choice anymore, though it had started out that way. When he started, he was a little younger, a little more cautious, a little more _unsteady._ When he started, it had almost been an accident. He hadn't meant to do it a second time. He hadn't meant to pick the knife up again. He hadn't _meant_ for it to continue, to turn into this.

Because when he started, he didn't _have_ those little reasons. He wasn't addicted to it then. Those bad thoughts weren't as bad back then. He didn't feel like he deserved it as much. And he had felt so much back then- too much, and he wondered if that had really been the problem.

God, fuck Chucky's existence. His _own_ existence confused him.

Andy kept silent, staring down silently as he finished up his… work. Until, finally, the knife slid from his fingers on its own accord; he was done for the time being. Not satisfied with what he'd done, not really. A part of him figured he'd never really be satisfied. But for the moment, the anger was comfortably stifled. The cleaning process was the more trying part to get through; first he had to clean and bandage the wounds, then fold his blanket and stuff it into his laundry hamper along with the rag. The TV had quieted a bit, so he figured Chucky might have finally drifted off, and he didn't want to wake the doll up. He could wait until tomorrow - he had a spare blanket to use for tonight. But, that was only if he did get to sleep, he reminded himself, as he retreated back to the bed and picked his phone back up. He still had that text to answer.

He flopped down, the bed swaying underneath him as he let his head fall against the pillow and held the phone up above his face. Those five words. Five simple words. But they stared back at him, glaring mercilessly and waiting for his response. His fingers fidgeted with the sides of the phone for a while, wondering what he could say. Sure, he wanted to talk to Kyle, but there were some other factors he needed to think about. How she might have found him, for instance. His mother wasn't hard to track down, maybe Kyle had gotten a hold of her. There weren't that many sources, admittedly; Andy Barclay had damn near shut himself off from the rest of the world. Only on occasion did he come out to talk, but he was never really… _himself_ when he did. Contrary to Chucky's beliefs, he didn't date because he was looking for a romantic partner. No.

He dated to get what he wanted. And what he wanted, most of the time, was _information_. About what? Well, those things could vary. Truthfully, he was still looking for people who might believe him about the killer doll incident. Not as desperately as he had when he was younger, of course; he didn't care whether anyone believed him now or not, but having a few people who did wouldn't hurt if he ever found himself in trouble again in the future. Andy didn't care about what would happen later on. He knew he'd be dragged down again eventually, he always did. The only thing he cared about was dragging as many poor fuckers down with him as he could.

It was time for the adults to start listening.

Kyle… Kyle trusted him, hm? Kyle knew everything that had happened with Chucky. Oh, Andy couldn't wait to see how she reacted to the little shit now. He'd have to be cautious, of course - he didn't want her to hurt Chucky, strangely enough. The thought almost pissed him off, in all honesty. He knew Kyle had as much beef with the serial killer as he did, and she certainly deserved a chance for revenge, but Andy figured they could hold off on the torture. He didn't want anybody else to hurt Chucky - nobody except him was allowed to torment the fucker. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was wrong to take that choice and chance for revenge from Kyle, but Andy didn't really _care_. He loved the girl, but things had changed. Andy was still planning. And he didn't know whether Kyle would get in the way of those plans, or whether she'd help. For the time being, he decided, it was best to keep his mouth shut. He didn't even know why she was contacting him, so he would wait it out. The man grinned, turning back to the phone.

Now he typed happily, much more cheerful and eager to speak with her now that he had somewhat of a plan. She didn't need to know about Chucky just yet. **Hey, Kyle! It's Andy.** It was simple, but it would spark a conversation. So, he put the phone down and reached over to light a joint while he waited, grinning to himself now. This was going to be good.


End file.
